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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657843">Nurtured by Daddy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Death Stranding (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Child Abuse, Flashbacks, Fragile’s Backstory, In-game Dialogue, Incest, M/M, Marking, Molestation, Mouth Stuffing, Parent/Child Incest, Uncledaddy Is Disgusting, Underage - Freeform, Underage Rape/Non-con, non-canon backstory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 15:00:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,642</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657843</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Higgs is watching as he slowly but surely becomes more and more like his uncle, and he can almost pinpoint where it all started.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Higgs Monaghan/Daddy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Nurtured by Daddy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In for some dadson trauma kink? </p>
<p>Bone app the teeth</p>
<p>Enjoy~</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You just can’t help but fuck up, can you?” </p>
<p>The low, raspy rumble of his father’s slurred voice and droopy syllables causes Higgs’ face to burn with fear and shame. </p>
<p>He stares at the floor and grabs his own arm, kneading the swollen, bruised flesh with the ball of his palm.  </p>
<p>“I said—“ the floor creaks as that heavy presence steps closer, voice raised, “You just can’t help but fuck everything up.” </p>
<p>The sore edge of Higgs’ jaw is grabbed and yanked upwards hard enough to give him whiplash, and suddenly, he’s face-to-face with uncle dearest. <em>Daddy</em>. </p>
<p>His teeth are barred and his nostrils are wide. He’s hissing through each lungful of air and every exhale is hot on Higgs’ broken nose. “Can you?” </p>
<p><em>Daddy never liked a quiet boy.</em> “Y- Yes. I mean—“ <em>Daddy likes his boys obedient, mindful.</em> “No, I didn’t mean to—“ </p>
<p><em>Slap</em>. </p>
<p>The sting is never what hurts the most. It’s not that initial burn and scramble to cover the swelling skin as it floods with blood and reddens, becoming ugly and uneven. It’s not the anticipation of it either, as it’s always fast and strong, like ripping a bandaid. </p>
<p>It’s the shame. </p>
<p>“What did I tell you?” Uncle’s feet are bigger than Higgs’. He is a man, after all, and the weight— the overbearing presence of his body and imperius stature— is shoving Higgs into the floor, feet first. He’s driving him deeper and deeper with each word. </p>
<p>Higgs sniffles. “I—“ </p>
<p><em>Slap</em>. </p>
<p>An apology isn’t an answer, and that wasn’t the question, was it? His uncle’s thumbnail caught on the bridge of Higgs’ nose, cutting the bruised, developing cartilage deep enough to sting all the way into his sinuses. </p>
<p>“What did I say?” His voice is sour and hot, close enough to his face that Higgs could choke on the acrid scent of alcohol and junk food. He yells, inches from Higgs’ wincing, turning head, “Answer!” </p>
<p>Every moment of his life, as short as it’s been thus far and as little as he’s truly seen, has had one consistent theme— disappointment. </p>
<p>Every interaction yields the same outcome as he bears the same output. He gives the same unto his surroundings as they provide to him; a grey attitude against grey walls and a monotone voice contrasting with the bleak, monotonous glow of artificial lighting. </p>
<p>This exchange has happened a million times already, he’s just reliving it. </p>
<p><em>Slap</em>. </p>
<p>Higgs shakes his head frantically. He’s crying— or bleeding, it’s hard to tell— and there’s a burn in his eardrum from a slap that’s making his dismal world spin. “Not to—“ his voice is choppy and that speech impediment he’s still outgrowing is weighing on every syllable “To ever disappoint you again.” </p>
<p>Yelling, again. “And what happens when you disappoint me?” Flecks of spit landing on his face and the putrid smell of a hot, unwashed tongue invade his bubble of safety that’s already been invaded too many times to note. “What happens then?” </p>
<p>Higgs is shuddering with fear and feeling the fibers of his being pressing against each other as he tries so desperately to make himself smaller than he is. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. </p>
<p><em>Slap</em>. </p>
<p>“I get—“ </p>
<p><em>Slap</em>. </p>
<p>“Tell me what happens—“ </p>
<p>“I’m trying—!”</p>
<p><em>Slap</em>. </p>
<p>“I get punished!” Higgs’ voice is so high and so very unintelligible. It sounds like the babbling of an infant with the way he speaks, how his words don’t come out the way they should, how his tongue doesn’t quite know where to go. “I get...“ he tries to look down and double-over with tears but that calloused hand on his jaw keeps him up, openly sobbing, “Punished.” </p>
<p>“That’s right.” </p>
<p>Higgs opens his eyes to his uncle nodding, wide-eyed like an epiphany had struck him a million miles per second. </p>
<p>“That’s good— you get punished.” He says with a nod, “That’s real good, boy.” </p>
<p>To deny his emphatic push for punishment by his own hand would be denying him the one thing he’s ever done consistently. Abusing Higgs comes as second nature and yelling another language. It’s all either of them know. </p>
<p>And yet…</p>
<p>Higgs shakes his head once again, frantically, “Please, no.” His voice is low and garbled but reeks of a willpower— and a fear— that ignites a fire under his uncle just hot enough to ensue the inevitable. “Please don’t—“ </p>
<p>He’s on the floor before he can entirely register what’s even happening. It’s one’s nature to adapt indefinitely, constantly evaluate and learn amid new and usual circumstances to suit whatever threat may arise; this isn’t a new thing for Higgs, it’s old news. </p>
<p>There’s a few heavy pounds against his back that he hears before he even feels. As if someone’s tossing a brisket on the floor, the sounds of flesh and bone against flesh and bone ebb and flow, filling his ears in a familiar tune he’ll likely never stop knowing. He lies stiff, covers his head and cries those muted pleas for mercy when they’re pried away and clawed and scratched and punched at. His ears begin to ring and after a while, he’s not hearing much of anything anymore. It’s just him and the unending flow of pressure in his flesh. And tomorrow, it will be the same thing. </p>
<p>He’s fighting the urge to sleep as it overcomes him. </p>
<p>The pounds are slower. Not as heavy nor presently consistent. He waits, thinks it over, wondering if it’s over and done with. Two fists crash down dead-center on his spine and leave two precious divots in the small of his back. The impact leaves him breathless. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“See the truth is, I don’t much care for my face.” Higgs points a finger under his chin and flashes his profile, “That’s why I hide it.” </p>
<p>The timefall is a loud, cacophonous storm of hailing rain that’s pelting the overpass above them and rattling the concrete beneath their feet especially loudly. But Higgs can hear Fragile’s uneasy, throaty whine beneath it all as if his mind was trained to isolate that one sound above all else </p>
<p>“Oh, but you… ooh, you just love yours, don’t ya?” He nods his head, “I bet daddy was real proud.” </p>
<p>Higgs lunges forward at Fragile and sees her resolve shatter in an instant. She’s got her hands up at her face, yielding and begging in posture. He’s shuddering just watching her writhe. </p>
<p>“Oh!” Higgs wags a finger at her, “No, no, no.” </p>
<p>That false stalling before the next lunge is fleeting, but it’s there. Higgs doesn’t miss her batting lashes as she thinks— for just a split second— that it’s over. </p>
<p>It reminds him of a little boy with purple and reddened skin writhing on the concrete floor. </p>
<p>He grabs a fistful of blond hair and yanks it towards his face with an open mouth. Fragile’s face twists in disgust and queasy unevenness as Higgs slides a slick, pierced tongue up the length of her face. From jawline to temple, he tastes her, and he can feel her fear. </p>
<p>That’s what it’s come to. It didn’t used to be this way— he didn’t have to taste what he could no longer feel, as it was always just there. But what she has isn’t his anymore, and he doesn’t belong to her. </p>
<p>It’s just him and his big words and verbal tactics that daddy taught him. Fragile doesn’t stand any more of a chance than Higgs did. </p>
<p>The nature of that very fact should send bile up his throat and imbed shame within his heart, but it doesn’t. He feeds on it, sees how she presses against him, eager to get away, but tries so hard not to touch him because who would want to feel Higgs Monaghan more than what’s necessary. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Consciousness isn’t given easily. It’s earned. It’s always been that way, too, where one day, it’s as innate a right as breathing, and others, it’s a card charged and charged and suddenly, he’s having to repay every moment spent with open eyes. </p>
<p>
  <em>Daddy does love to make his boy pay. </em>
</p>
<p>Higgs’ hands are numb and weak. He can’t feel much of his left arm as it’s red and mangled and tender to the touch, but his ankle is what worries him once his mind is clear enough to register the feeling of it all. </p>
<p>It’s red and twisted and purple and ugly, and he cannot for the life of him feel it. </p>
<p>He’s grasping at his face, his torso, his neck, touching where his head feels too heavy to look. He’s feeling liquid pool in the hollowness of his cheeks and cloud his vision but he can’t feel an inch of his face besides the swelling of his sinuses and the ache of his whipped eardrums and the sting of his pulled scalp. </p>
<p>Daddy did always love to do a number on his favorite boy. <em>His only boy. </em></p>
<p>And Higgs is his favorite, isn’t he? His one little charge and that which he moves the most for. His reason for yelling and lifting a fist so high as he does. </p>
<p>He’s his little man, that’s for sure. </p>
<p>Guttural groans bellow out of his gut as he lifts his tiny body— which feels so, so unfathomably heavy— off of the cold floor. </p>
<p>There’s puddles of fluid, crimson and bright as the sun outlining the shape of his little body and where it fell, and a gag builds in his throat as he slips in it trying to upright himself. </p>
<p>Gag after gag, puddle after puddle smeared, and he’s leaning against a wall. He’s stumbling, dizzy, but upright. </p>
<p>The bunker is just as dark as it usually is but his vision makes it especially hard to see where his feet are attempting to carry him. There’s a door— large and towering compared to him. He eyes it through swollen lids and stumbles forward, trying with all his might to control those choked up little sobs that penetrate the deafening silence around him. </p>
<p>Noise attracts, and he doesn’t want that. Especially not now. </p>
<p>His teeth chatter against one another. His jaw is stiff yet loose. His eyes are shut yet open. He grabs the jutting edge of his rib cage where one bone sticks out just a little further than the rest, and winces— cries out— and falls against the door of what he assumes is his sorry excuse for a bedroom. </p>
<p>As it opens— loudly and with easy give, surprisingly— and somewhere inside of his little, undeveloped mind, he asks himself why he assumed it would be his. </p>
<p>Why would the universe give him that, of all things? </p>
<p>Higgs writhes, and steps forward, and nearly wretches. </p>
<p>His uncle is sitting on the edge of his bed, nursing himself further into a stupor with a glass bottle in one hand and an iron fist in the other. His face is solemn and soft, that kind of <em>calm before the storm</em> that has every given movement especially scary to one anticipating the kick-up of violent winds and raging thunder. </p>
<p>Higgs wandered into the eye of the storm without even realizing it, and a part of himself wonders if it’s not too late to back out. </p>
<p>He grips the doorknob and peers through permanently-squinted, swollen eyes, and backs up. Daddy hasn’t seen him yet, he doesn’t think. He takes a step back and hears the clearing of a throat and feels his own stomach drop to his kneecaps. </p>
<p>“Where're you goin?” </p>
<p>It’s slurred, and it’s faint, and it is so very distant through the drumming of his own heartbeat in his ears. But unmistakably, it’s daddy. </p>
<p>Higgs plunges himself back into the hall, the door in his tiny hand inches from being closed. </p>
<p>“Boy—“ </p>
<p>And he could probably get away with it too. If he would just leave, just back out, his uncle would feel the heavy blanket of warmth across his body from alcohol and choose to stay rather than chase, as much as he does love their cat and mouse dynamic. </p>
<p>“I said where’re you goin?” </p>
<p>That voice is tempered and low and slurred, and Higgs could do it. He could leave. So quickly, It burns him how tantalizingly close it is. </p>
<p>But Higgs is a good boy, isn’t he? </p>
<p>“Come here son, here—“ He points to the floor in front of his feet, “Come see daddy.” His voice is slurred, but low and even. As illiterate as he is, he’s always lacked diction and proper wording, but even now, he sounds coherent and put-together enough that it’s scary to imagine what his thoughts are currently flooding with. </p>
<p>Higgs’ nerves find solace in the evenness of his uncle’s voice. It’s calming to hear this unusual steadiness. </p>
<p>He beckons, waving a hand, “Come here.” </p>
<p>Higgs can’t see the side of his face that’s pointed in his direction. A lamp on his uncle’s other side is casting an unfortunate shadow, mangling the features of his face into a vague silhouette, his hands making puppets on the walls. </p>
<p>“Boy,“ He begins sternly, taking a swing of his beer, repeating himself, “Get over here. </p>
<p>Higgs puts a pep in his step and stumbles. He knows he’s being watched as he practically drags his body across the room, holding the aftermath of his uncle’s rage in both bruised arms as he returns to the feet of the man who made him this way. </p>
<p>He stops a few paces away from the bed. </p>
<p>“I said—” And there it is, as real as it ever is when it manages to break through that soft facade, “<em>Get. Over. Here.”</em> He lurches forward and grabs Higgs’ forearm, pulling him to stand square between his legs, but his grip is gone just as fast as it was there, releasing Higgs. </p>
<p>Higgs stands there squinting, looking up and trying to stifle his wheezing and the chatter of his teeth. </p>
<p>In every abused child’s mind, there’s always this idea of hope that manages to build itself up just as quickly as it manages to fall. Each one has a hopeful mind towards affection that does make them so easy to manipulate. Even if it’s something as simple as a guardian abstaining from violent punches or yelling, a young mind so hungry for validation latches on to whatever it can to justify wanting to feel loved. Higgs is no exception. </p>
<p>Higgs can finally see his uncle’s face in the amber lighting of the lamp from this angle, and his expression is so devoid of anger that it’s sickening. </p>
<p>His uncle smiles, “Do you hate me?” He reaches up and thumbs away a speck of blood and spit steadily drying on Higgs’ cheek. </p>
<p>Yes. In this light, in this bunker, in this mortal husk he’s forced to inhabit that’s so abased and contorted beyond repair, yes, he does hate him. </p>
<p>But the endless sea of love that his childlike mind drowns itself within pleads— <em>no</em>. </p>
<p>Higgs coughs as he pushes his vocal chords to verbalize something coherent. He wipes his mouth, and tries again, “N-No, daddy.” </p>
<p>“That’s good,” His palm drops from Higgs’ cheek and rest on his bony little shoulder, and he begins to rub small circles in the torn fabric of his shirt, “That’s real good.”</p>
<p>Higgs looks around. He eyes everything but the face in front of him. The floor is what he begins to favor. </p>
<p>It feels like standing in front of a feline predator— wild and insatiable in its thirst for blood— yet one that is quenched. Recently fed. And he’s wondering when that hunger will arise in its gut once again and fill the forest with the cries of an unsuspecting child. </p>
<p>His uncle takes a long swig, real slow and steady, eyeing Higgs as he chugs, and then drops the bottle to the floor. </p>
<p>He doesn’t even bother to shatter it against the furthest wall. He just… drops it, like it’s nothing. </p>
<p>He can feel the trembling of Higgs’ shoulders beneath his palm and Higgs knows he can. He lifts a newly-empty hand to Higgs’ other shoulder and kneads the bony flesh, either hands both casually rubbing little circles through the thin fabric of his shirt. </p>
<p>“Do you love me?” </p>
<p>A thumb on either side slip past the collar of Higgs’ shirt, caressing his jutting clavicle. </p>
<p>“Yes.” </p>
<p>He sighs something between a low, breathy ‘good’ and a groan of satisfaction, no doubt with Higgs’ complacency. He pulls both hands away from Higgs and situates himself solidly on the bed before slapping his knee. “Come sit on daddy’s thigh and tell him how much you love him.” </p>
<p>The third-person referral somehow makes it all so much worse, as though it’s not him saying it, beckoning for his flesh and blood to come so, so very close. And Higgs can feel the queasiness in his stomach thinking about touching his uncle, but he doesn’t comprehend the impending doom and the implications of just what this means, he can’t manifest fear for it within himself as he can’t even imagine what it’s leading to. </p>
<p>It’s not within his realm of comprehension, and, by default, it shouldn’t be. </p>
<p>Higgs climbs into his daddy’s lap, just like a good little boy. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Now, don’t worry. I won’t mess it up.” Higgs nods down at Fragile as though he’s solidifying his statement, self-assured, “See, I want your face to be a kind of testament.” </p>
<p>He grabs the neoprene mask soaked in sweat from days of going unwashed against his own face and shoves it over Fragile’s head. She hisses and pulls back, but nonetheless closes her eyes and lets it happen. </p>
<p>Higgs steps back with a toothy grin, admiring his work, “Yeahh.” </p>
<p>“Why did you do it? Why did you betray me?” Fragile balls her fists in her lap and scowls up at Higgs. </p>
<p>Ohh, if only the meek knew of what goes on behind closed doors and on separate beaches. </p>
<p>It’s above her head just as much as it’s above Higgs’, but he does know his purpose, in the end. He does have an end goal. Enough of one at least to say where he’s going with all this. </p>
<p>“Because I found someone who completes me.” He stalls that grin of his for just a moment long enough to let the seriousness of his words seep through. “Someone who doesn’t need me to wear a mask.” </p>
<p>Higgs looks down at the cargo box— a bomb disguised as a harmless package— and quirks a brow. “Ohh—“ He picks it up and holds it, tosses it between either hand, weighs it a moment, feels of its true weight, and shoves it into Fragile’s arms, “Word to the wise.” </p>
<p>She stumbles backward and Homo Demens ready their arms, pointing barrels at the back of her head. </p>
<p>He circles her, “Even if you do save South Knot, you’ll always be the nutjob who blew up Middle Knot.” He grabs her shoulder, gripping the exposed, still soft and pliant skin, tightly, and draws a breath close to her ear. “That pretty face of yours will always be remembered as the face of a terrorist.” </p>
<p><em>Pretty face</em>. </p>
<p>Who taught him to love the prettiness of a face? Higgs wonders just how many things he’s done that daddy would applaud him for. How many habits has he fallen into that would make daddy’s core clench imagining his little boy carrying out so dutifully.     </p>
<p>He ponders— treading lightly on his own emotions and dancing around his memories— asking himself just what he’s done to feel so akin to daddy, how he’s managed to become what daddy once thought himself to be.</p>
<p>A savior, perhaps? <br/>                                                                                                                                         <br/>He’s doing what Homo Demens do, destroying cities, voiding out the remnants of a civilization in one last-ditch effort to rid this earth of the scum that plagues its surface. The scum he’s had to deal with and the scum he’s undeniably become. </p>
<p>All of it deserves to be done away with. Every inch and every morsel of life. Nothing should be spared, himself included. </p>
<p>“They’ll never stop hunting you.” Higgs laughs, “Believe me, I know.” </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The world so often seems to spin around Higgs. As though his head was made to swivel and spiral, he’s always thrust into some unfortunate situation that boggles his tiny mind and dazes his undeveloped senses without a lick of a notion as to why. </p>
<p>But right now, ironically, his world isn’t spinning— it’s <em>bouncing</em>. </p>
<p>His uncle’s breath is hot on his face, “You know I’ve always been good to you.” He’s beginning to pant, sighing through bared teeth, “You know that? Tell me you know that.” He braces his hands on Higgs’ thin waist and bounces him up and down on his knee. </p>
<p>Higgs tries to keep up. He doesn’t know if that’s what he’s supposed to do, or if that’s why he’s here, but it’s what daddy wants, so he complies. </p>
<p>Higgs winces as his bruised body is jostled around and bounced up and down. The words manage to slip out before he can truly register how or why he’s saying them, “Yes, I know.” What comes out of his mouth is squeaky and garbled, and set to the tune of his vibrating, bouncing body. His hands instinctively grasp at his uncle’s chest while he bounces for some semblance of stability. </p>
<p>He’s touching everywhere. His hands are so large and so rough and Higgs can feel the calloused pads of his fingers as they somehow wriggle beneath the hem of his shirt to feel, and feel, and feel. “Yes who?” He asks, innocently enough. Daddy wants to know who his boy is speaking to, right? That has to be it. But he should know, too. He should feel Higgs’ little heart rabbit-kicking against his ribcage as wandering fingers graze the pretty, pink perkiness of his nipples. </p>
<p>“Yes— daddy.” Higgs whines, his body twisting away from the hands that roam so far where they shouldn’t. </p>
<p>He feels a sob building up inside of him and it’s escaping before he can push it back down. He’s soon gagging on his own mucus and tears as his uncle hisses with what Higgs can’t possibly recognize as pleasure. </p>
<p>“That’s it—“ He shoves the hem of Higgs’ shirt all the way up to his shoulders, exposing his pink, bruised skin, “Let daddy hear you. That’s good, just for me.” </p>
<p>Higgs can’t help but push away the hands on him but by the time his little fingers have a hold on anything, he’s being pulled up and closer until he’s flush against his uncle’s torso, and, conveniently, just over the bulge of his lap. </p>
<p>The bouncing rhythm grows to be quick and ruthless. </p>
<p>Higgs is sobbing with both hands pushing against his uncle’s chest.</p>
<p>He’s snotting and crying all over the both of them, and feeling something hard press against his ass. “Please— daddy, stop.” </p>
<p>“Oh, that’s good,” It’s not even as though he’s speaking to Higgs anymore. In this moment, it’s no longer a child— Higgs— in his lap, it’s just a doll. A pretty, porcelain, pink doll with a few more scratches and beauty marks than the others. Worn. Used. “Let daddy hear you. Come on—“ he lifts Higgs’ chin up despite his thrashing head, “Let me see that pretty face of yours. Show me those tears.” </p>
<p>He’s shoving his fingers into Higgs’ mouth and alternating between bouncing him up and down and grinding against him. He’s parting Higgs’ legs as well as his own, palming his bulge so much bigger than anything Higgs could ever possibly take without ripping and smearing the sticky fluid that comes back up across his cheek and lips, forcing him to taste and swallow it. His face is never just one expression either— its a concentrated grit of his teeth or an angry clench of his jaw, or even a slight smile of satisfaction with how good his pretty little boy is being for him. </p>
<p>Higgs gags on the fingernails scraping the back of his throat and for the first time, he has the thought to actually bite the hand that feeds him.</p>
<p>For a second— a mere moment of undecided clarity— he thinks it's a bad idea. </p>
<p>And then there’s a hand pinching his waistband and pulling it downwards, defiling and savoring every inch of what it feels. </p>
<p>His voice is a low, viscous muttering, “Does that get your little pussy wet, baby boy?” It’s warm on his inner thigh and tantalizingly close to that one area he’s practically never touched or thought of beyond using the bathroom and cleaning. Fat fingers part the tight little folds of his prepubescent cunt and slip inside of his hole. They curve and prod him open and Higgs cries out when they scrape against his dry walls, one thumb against the tiny little cluster of nerves that is his clit beneath a taught little hood, and two readily pushing inside of him. It hurts, and it tears, and Higgs can’t help but bite down. </p>
<p>And oh, what a bad idea that was. </p>
<p>“God— fuck—!” His uncle punches him— truly, legitimately punches him— and he goes limp in an instant. </p>
<p>It’s a blur of sensations and flashing images after that. Thankfully so, truth be told. </p>
<p>His body is cold and wet and yet warm and covered. His backside hurts and his throat is emitting awful wheezing sounds and his head is pounding, and suddenly there’s a head between his legs and a throbbing in his stomach that he wouldn’t in a million years know what to do with.</p>
<p> “You’re so pretty for me….” </p>
<p>He can’t quite make all of it out, what’s being said, but he gathers enough. </p>
<p>“Aren’t you just the tightest little thing I’ve ever slid into….” </p>
<p>The voice is intermittently coursing through his head, in one ear and out the other, and the sensations he feels are just about the same. There one second, gone the next.</p>
<p>“You’re always so easy, such a good little boy….” </p>
<p>Higgs is tossing and turning and his ass stings and his groin is burning from overstimulation, and a pretty purple line steadily forms on his throat as a hand braces itself just enough to sever the airflow passing through his jugular. </p>
<p>He’s being used. And when will that stop being a constant? </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Out you go,</em> Higgs thinks, <em>into your future. </em></p>
<p>Fragile stands at the precipice, bare and naked at the brink of being soaked. “Because I am Fragile,” and she has more guts than Higgs ever will, “But I am not that fragile.” </p>
<p>Something in his chest sinks as he watches her go. </p>
<p>She slips. She falls. She crawls before inevitably getting back up. And by god, she takes that bomb to the depths of a lake swimming with more chiralium than Higgs himself will ever know. </p>
<p>And he knows it— how much stronger than him she Is. </p>
<p>Higgs possesses scars, both mental and physical— tears in his muscles and breaks in his psyche— that define the animal he is, but Fragile has a willpower he’ll never manage to meet. </p>
<p>She possesses the kindness he’s never been dealt nor ever tried to know. The kind he was denied. </p>
<p>She doesn’t see it, and his men don’t see it, but Higgs’ toothy grin fades just as quickly as Fragile herself dips below the hills. Because he isn’t watching his former partner scald from head to toe, he’s seeing himself dashing through the storm and his own uncle in his very own position taking pride in watching it happen. </p>
<p>He’s the one he swore not to be, and Fragile, well, she’s just collateral to the inevitable downfall of each and every one of them. </p>
<p>Her sacrifices and her valiant effort to fight against what’s thrust upon her will yield no more fruit than Higgs’ did. </p>
<p>They’re both just squandering their last moments, trying to grab onto what still convinces them that they’re on the winning side. </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>WOO BOY. </p>
<p>Please feel more than free to point out any mistakes, spelling errors yada yada. All feedback is appreciated!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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